America's First Daughter: A Novel(173)

“God,” William said, though the word carried with the sound of a profane curse. Color came to his cheeks, and he put a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll speak to him. I’ll assure him of your blamelessness.”

“But I’m not blameless.” My heart cried out that I never wanted to part with him. That now, more than ever, I wanted to keep him near. “And you must go, because he means to call you out.”

An unexpected bloodlust filled William’s eyes. “Does he?”

“He thinks himself betrayed. Here under his own roof.”

“Your father’s roof,” William corrected, then blanched at his own words.

I didn’t have to explain to him the scandal of gentlemen with pistols meeting on my father’s lawn, only weeks before the arrival of Lafayette. And that was to say nothing of the fact that such a duel might very well end in blood and tragedy. I had no doubt whatsoever that my husband would try to put a bullet in William’s brain. Even if he missed—even if it was William whose aim was true—it’d make a widow of me and an orphan of my children.

“Please forgive me, Patsy. I should have never—”

“Loved me?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes. I’d made of myself the model Republican wife and daughter, reputed for virtue and spotless reputation. Tom would try to take that from me now; he was angry enough to tarnish me and my father’s legacy—the only thing of value my children might ever inherit. And I’d been reckless enough to give him the means with which to do it. I had no excuse but one. “Don’t regret loving me, I beg you, because I return your love, a thousandfold.”

William blinked, and when he finally found his voice, it quavered. “I worry that you’re saying it because this is a trying time, one of overwrought emotion, and here I am, conveniently—”

“I love you,” I insisted, certain to the marrow of my bones. “Do I need to carve it in one of these trees? I loved you first, I loved you always, and will never stop loving you. Which is why I’m begging you to go. We must never see one another again. This must be good-bye.”

He stared, his throat bobbing with emotion. “How can you ask me to leave you at the mercy of that man? Not after you tell me what I’ve waited thirty years to hear. If I leave Monticello, Patsy, leave with me.”

He wanted me to leave with him. To leave Monticello behind. The beauty and grandeur, the violence and slavery . . . and my father. It was more impossible now than it’d been in France all those years ago. Then, I had only my father and my sister. Now, I had children.

My hand to his cheek, I whispered, “My dear, beloved man, I’m married to another.”

“I don’t care,” he said hoarsely. “Divorce him or leave him, I don’t care which. I’ll live with you as husband or lover, in discretion or open scandal. I’ve been the subject of notoriety before. I don’t care about reputation. I don’t care!”

It was a wild and reckless dream—one that I would cherish—but one that could only ever be a dream. I cared about reputation and always had. I’d sacrificed for it again and again. Reputation had toppled governments and lost people their heads. Taking a lover as Frenchwomen did would shame my father and hurt my children, but more than that . . .

“It would destroy me, William.”

“Why should it?”

“Because I’m my father’s daughter. And you’re his adoptive son. That is why you must go before we both bring down disgrace on him. This must be good-bye. This must be good-bye.”

I didn’t need to say more than this. Twice, he’d offered me a life with him, and twice I’d turned him away. With a white-faced grimace, he nodded, then pulled from the inside of his jacket a very old and worn piece of paper, folded many times. He slipped it into my hand and before I could ask what it was, he explained, “This is something I have held onto for too long. I meant to give this to you in farewell when you left France, but I could not bring myself to do it then. In my youth, I thought it was because I was too angry. But perhaps, throughout everything, even through my love for Rosalie, I held out hope for us.” His eyes dropped away. “At least, until this moment.”

With that, he brushed a soft kiss to my cheek, leaving me to open the paper in which a curl of my hair was still enclosed. But the page was no longer blank. In elegant script, it read:

I let myself be sacrificed

For what you hold most dear

Could I love you more?

Do not shed bitter tears

Over my destiny

As you look at the object who knew so well how to please you.

You will soon be consoled of its loss.

The poem was French, the words as painful now as they would have been to read in 1789. And I stared at them in agony, as William Short walked away.

Within the hour, William called for a carriage. He made an emotional farewell to my father, excusing himself on some urgent business up north. He requested that we express his regret to Lafayette, pleading forgiveness for any distress his visit may have caused.

As I watched his carriage roll away from Monticello, I believed that I’d never see him again. And a part of me died, leaving a cold and hollow spot inside my heart where he used to be.





“HE’S GONE,” SALLY INFORMED ME while I scattered feed for the chickens—a job that wasn’t mine, but useful work was the only defense against profound misery.